


A Woman Scorned

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Athos Whump, Dragon Riders, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Athos, Hurt Constance, Hurt/Comfort, hurt Rhaego, worried protective brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22802761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: Milady makes her final move against Athos and his friends.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 23
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

Athos slogged drunkenly down the darkened streets of Paris on his way home after drinking his fill at the tavern. He had stayed longer than he should, though not quite as long as he had on past occasions, nor as long as he felt inclined to this night. He had somewhere to be first thing in the morning, after all. Yet his melancholy had struck with a vengeance and he had fed it wine as he always did. Even after all these years, the pain could feel as sharp as it did that day he lost his brother and his wife. And sometimes d'Artagnan's and Constance's happiness only served as a reminder of what he himself had once had. So he indulged his vice in the evening and tomorrow he would present himself as the supportive friend he was supposed to be to the young couple in love.

A figure cut across the street ahead of him, gliding like a ghost out of his tortured mind. Athos froze, paralyzed by the visage. She paused in the middle of the road and turned her head toward him. Dark eyes pierced him where he stood and his breath caught in his throat. The ebony curls and porcelain skin looked tangible, but she could not possibly be real.

She turned her gaze away and resumed walking. Athos stumbled forward, unable to not follow, desperate for one more glimpse of the phantom that haunted him daily. She slipped down a dark alley, an apparition slinking away into the shadows. Athos lurched after her, but she did not stop or turn again, not until he finally caught up at the other side of the alley mouth. At his harried, scuffing boot sounds, she stopped and slowly turned. He stared in stupefaction.

"Hello, Athos."

He blinked to clear his vision. It couldn't be.

"I'm dreaming," he murmured.

She gave him a simpering smirk. "Drunk, perhaps. But not dreaming."

He seized her by the arms then, gawking at the solid feel beneath his fingers. "H-how? The magistrate…"

"Took me away to be hanged?" she finished. "The Cardinal took pity on me." She narrowed her eyes in a considering manner. "But there will be no pity for you."

Out of the darkness, something struck him from behind, and Athos crashed to his knees. His vision wavered, and the last thing he saw was his resurrected dead wife before he was hit again and everything went black.

When he next became aware, it was to the typical pounding in his skull after a night of heavy drinking. But there was a crick in his neck from his head hanging back at an awkward angle. He shifted, or tried to, only to find his limbs wouldn't move. Prizing his eyelids open, he squinted at a dark room faintly lit with candles, but even that soft light was too much for him to tolerate.

Athos flexed his fingers, feeling coarse rope around his wrists and what felt like arm rests beneath them. He was tied to a chair in some place without windows, making it impossible to know how long he had been there. His vision started to clear a bit, and he stiffened as he noticed his wife sitting at a table across the chamber from him. It was just the two of them, as far as he could see, but she must have had help bringing him here.

"Anne…" he breathed.

She rose gracefully. She had always possessed a measure of grace and poise, but now it was stiff, cold…predatory. "I've waited for this moment for years. Ever since you sentenced me to death."

She moved closer and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back and pressing a knife to his throat.

"You murdered my brother," he said, voice devoid of the tumultuous emotions roiling inside him.

"I killed Thomas to save our love," she rejoined.

"You killed him…because he discovered the truth," Athos ground out as the knife's pressure increased. "That you were a criminal…who lied and tricked your way into my life."

"He was a fool and a hypocrite," she spat venomously. "He deserved to die. I thought you would understand that."

Athos's heart clenched with grief, betrayal, hatred…and that ever capricious feeling he couldn't seem to stamp out—love. Love for the woman he'd pledged his life to, the woman he thought she was, the woman she had been with him. "Anne…" he whispered.

Her gaze flicked down, and she moved her knife to lift the chain of the locket from his neck, a strange emotion crossing her face. But a moment later it hardened and she pressed the blade more firmly to his throat again.

"Do it," Athos hissed, the lingering effects of the wine making his tongue loose. "Do it."

Anne smirked then and drew back. "I will," she promised. "But not yet." She slashed the knife across his chest.

Athos gasped in surprise at the pain. She cut him again, and again, and Athos gritted his teeth against crying out.

Anne stepped back, mouth pursing in a considering moue. "Physical pain only gives me some measure of satisfaction," she mused. "But I know what will really hurt you is to lose your friends, your proclaimed 'brothers.'"

Athos lunged forward in the chair. "You've already taken one from me!"

"And you took my life from me! Now I will take everything from you."

"Leave them out of this!" he snarled. "This is between us."

Anne smirked, her expression and tone growing deceptively mild. "But it's always been a family affair, hasn't it?" She cleaned the knife on a handkerchief and tucked it into her clutch. "You'll have to excuse me for a bit, there was somewhere you needed to be this morning, correct? I'd be happy to go in your place."

Athos's heart lurched. "Anne, don't do this," he pleaded.

She narrowed a chilling gaze on him. "Begging didn't sway you."

With that, she turned and swept toward the door. Athos struggled against his bonds, but he could only watch, horror gripping his heart as the door slammed shut behind her.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan shifted his weight, nervous energy making his stomach flutter. He didn't know why he was anxious; all of his dreams were coming true and he was elated. Now that he'd finally gotten his commission into the Musketeer regiment, he couldn't wait any longer and had gotten Jean Bonacieux's blessing to marry Constance. He threw another glance toward the front of the church where his bride-to-be was standing with her father, waiting to walk down the aisle. She was dressed in a simple summer dress, mostly white but with some pink patterned blossoms along the hems. Her hair was done up with a crown of flowers as well. Constance caught him looking and smiled back. She was radiant.

Beside d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos were exchanging grins. The priest was in front of the altar, ready to perform the ceremony. They were just waiting for Athos. Who was now late.

D'Artagnan fidgeted again, this time with a little impatience and annoyance. Athos knew how important this was. He'd promised to be here.

"How much longer are we to wait?" the priest spoke up.

D'Artagnan's mouth pinched as he looked toward Constance again. Her smile faltered and she looked around as though expecting Athos to come rushing in. But he didn't. Maybe they should just go ahead…

"I'll check outside," Aramis said. "Perhaps he's just coming up the street."

D'Artagnan sighed as Aramis moved away, but irritation was quickly replaced with a flicker of worry. "Do you think something happened to him?" he asked Porthos.

The other musketeer shrugged. "He was a bit melancholic last night. He's happy fer the two of you, you know. I think it jus' also reminds him of…you know."

D'Artagnan frowned. He didn't mean to bring up bad memories for his friend.

"He'll be here," Porthos assured him, then quirked his brow thoughtfully. "He jus' might be a little hungover…"

D'Artagnan sighed again. He wanted to be understanding, but this was _his_ big day. And Constance's. And the joyous mood was starting to temper.

"Father," Aramis called from the front of the church. "Did you lock the doors for the ceremony?"

The priest furrowed his brow in confusion. "No."

"I can't get them open."

"What?" Porthos strode down the aisle to the front of the church.

D'Artagnan followed, stopping beside Constance as Porthos grabbed the large door handles and yanked. They rattled but didn't budge. Porthos pulled harder, gritting his teeth as he used his brute strength to pry the doors open.

"You'll break them!" the priest exclaimed.

The doors finally cracked open, and d'Artagnan caught a glimpse of chains across the gap on the outside.

"What the hell…" Porthos groused, squeezing his hand through the gap to finger the chains.

"I don't like this," Aramis said. "We should check the other exits."

"You smell that?" Porthos interrupted, brows knitting together. "Is that…?"

"Gunpowder!" Aramis yelled, spinning around. "Run!"

D'Artagnan felt a split second of stunned incomprehension before he grabbed at Constance and began to haul her down the aisle. The priest sputtered and didn't move fast enough, momentarily blocking their path. D'Artagnan shoved at him urgently. There were sounds of scrambling as they tried to bolt for the back.

And then an explosion ripped through the church, a concussive force slamming into d'Artagnan's back and flinging him off his feet into darkness.

.o.0.o.

Athos had been twisting and rotating his wrists against the ropes nonstop since Anne had left. He didn't know how much time had passed, and his wrists were grated and raw, but his efforts finally paid off as he managed to tug one hand free. His abraded flesh stung and his fingers fumbled to loosen the rope on his other wrist, but he managed it. He pushed himself out of the chair, only for his legs to completely buckle beneath him.

He crashed face first to the floor, the cuts on his chest flaring with bursts of pain as they scraped across the coarse ground. Athos tried to roll over but could only twist his waist. His legs wouldn't move at all. Terror shot through him and he grasped frantically at the lifeless limbs. He hadn't felt any pain to suggest he'd been wounded. He could feel his fingers squeezing the muscles, but he just couldn't make them _move_. He twisted back toward the door, heart rate ratcheting up as he desperately tried to drag himself across the floor.

Then the door opened and Anne stepped inside. She paused at the sight of him, mouth pursing into a simpering moue. Athos dropped his head to the floor, clenching his fists.

"I'd be disappointed if you hadn't tried to escape," Anne remarked calmly, closing the door behind her. She glided across the room toward him, crouching down at his side. "Which is why I gave you a paralyzing agent."

She walked her fingers down his back to the base of his spine, and Athos flinched as he suddenly registered the feeling of a tender spot.

"It's not permanent," she crooned. "Not that it will matter in the end." She straightened and began to pace around him. "The ceremony for the d'Artagnans looked like it would have been lovely. If not for the unfortunate incident with the gunpowder at the church."

Athos's blood ran cold. "What have you done?" he hissed.

"I spared those two young lovebirds the disappointment and hurt of future betrayal."

No…it couldn't be true. She was lying. D'Artagnan and Constance… Aramis and Porthos would have been there too…

Athos tried to push himself more upright, only managing to brace himself on his elbows. "You already took my brother from me. You have me here. Why do this!"

Anne rounded the table in the room and knelt next to him again. "You made me the monster you believed me to be," she seethed. "And now you can reap the fruits of it."

Athos's arms trembled under the weight of her vitriol and the crushing despair of further loss. "Then finish it," he spat.

She smirked. "Patience, my love." She slid a look down the length of his body. "The paralyzing agent renders your legs useless, but they can still feel pain." She produced the same knife from before and slashed it across his thigh.

Athos grunted against the fresh burst of fire. Anne trailed the tip of the blade down his leg and curved it tauntingly around his knee. With a flick of her wrist, she drew another line of crimson. Turning back to Athos, she gripped the back of his hair and leaned close to his face.

"I'm going to work my way up to cutting out your heart as you did mine," she purred.

With that, she slammed the grip of the knife into his temple. His last thought before oblivion claimed him was if it was his heart Anne wanted, she'd already destroyed it.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis coughed and choked on the dust particles clogging his nose and throat. He pushed his arms beneath him in order to leverage himself upright but felt resistance on his back. He rubbed at his eyes to clear his vision and found himself wedged between a row of pews, some broken pieces of wood lying across him. He shifted around to crawl out from underneath them instead. When he reached the edge of the pews, he was along the outer wall. Pushing himself to his feet, Aramis stumbled as he turned to survey the wreckage of the church. The front had been obliterated and was now a pile of rubble. Hazy smudges of sunlight filtered through the lingering dust where the middle of the ceiling had caved in.

Aramis coughed again. "Porthos! D'Artagnan!"

He waded through the debris in search of the others. He had been behind Jean and Porthos, pushing the older man ahead of him as they tried to flee from the imminent explosion.

"Porthos!"

He heard the shifting of rubble and a grunt. "Aramis!"

Aramis veered toward the sound of his friend's voice, picking his way through broken pews to where Porthos was shoving debris off of himself and hauling a dazed Jean to his feet. Aramis was halfway there when an anguished cry pulled him to a halt and he tried to find its source.

"D'Artagnan!"

"Help!" the boy called back, tone distraught. "Aramis!"

Aramis stumbled over the wreckage toward a figure he could barely make out, covered in dust as he was. As he got closer, he saw d'Artagnan on the ground, Constance's body hanging limply in his arms.

D'Artagnan lifted devastated eyes to his. "Please help her."

Aramis nearly tripped closing the distance between them and he dropped to his knees beside them, reaching a hand to Constance's neck. The flutter of a pulse beneath his fingers sent a rush of adrenaline through his already flooded system.

"She's alive," he assured d'Artagnan. "Come, we need to get out of here."

"Constance?" Jean gasped as he and Porthos made their way over. "Dear God, no."

"She's alive," Aramis repeated. He glanced around. "Where's Father Michel?"

"I'll find 'im," Porthos said and turned back to wade through the church ruins.

Aramis made to take Constance from d'Artagnan, but the young Gascon refused to let go. So Aramis held her head and neck stable as d'Artagnan struggled to his feet, then led them toward a gap in the wall they could climb out through. Outside, the street was full of stunned passersby, and Aramis couldn't help but sweep his gaze around in search of anyone who looked responsible for the explosion. No sinister figures lingered in the shadows admiring their work though.

He turned his attention back to Constance where d'Artagnan had eased her to the ground again. She was coated in dust like the lot of them and had a trail of blood coming from beneath her hairline. Aramis examined it carefully and determined it was shallow. He gingerly felt around the rest of her head and was relieved to find no give or swelling. Still, the fact that she was unconscious was worrisome.

"We should get her back to the garrison infirmary," he said.

D'Artagnan had eyes only for Constance, and he brushed a trembling finger down her face. "Aramis…"

"She'll be fine," he promised, though perhaps it was foolish to do so. It was just that he didn't see anything life threatening, but they should call for Doctor Lemay to confirm that.

He rose to his feet, scanning the wreckage for Porthos. It was another moment before he caught sight of his friend making his way out, an arm around Father Michel as the priest limped beside him. Aramis hurried over and helped Porthos ease the man onto the ground. They'd all survived, if not unscathed. Aramis made the sign of the cross in silent thanksgiving before his heart steeled. He didn't know who was behind this, but he was going to find out.

Aramis offered to bring Father Michel to the garrison with them, but the priest insisted on being cared for by his own. So Aramis went back to d'Artagnan and helped him lift Constance into his arms again, and then the five of them began making their way toward the garrison. By the time they arrived, word had apparently reached the regiment of the explosion and Treville was in the yard when they came limping in. His eyes widened at Constance.

"Is she…?"

"Alive," Aramis reiterated for the third time. "We should send for Lemay."

Treville nodded and waved at a nearby musketeer to do that. "What happened?" he demanded as he followed them into the infirmary.

"It was an attack," Porthos growled. "The doors were chained shut an' gunpowder set jus' outside. By the time we realized an' were tryin' to get 'em open, the fuse had already been lit. We're lucky we survived."

Aramis began to look Constance over more thoroughly after d'Artagnan laid her on one of the beds.

"Where's Athos?" Treville asked.

"He hadn't arrived yet," Porthos answered.

"And you have no idea who was behind it?" Treville pressed. "Was it an attack against the Musketeers or the church?"

"No way to know for certain at this point," Aramis replied, taking a wet cloth and gently wiping the blood from Constance's forehead. She moaned.

"Constance?" d'Artagnan exclaimed, squeezing her hand. Jean leaned over his shoulder and clasped her knee.

Her eyelids fluttered groggily. "D'Artagnan?" she said weakly.

"I'm right here." He brought her hand to his chest and kissed it.

Aramis touched the side of her head gently. "Constance, can you tell me where you hurt?"

She let out another low moan. "My head, a little. Nothing else, really."

"Are you sure?" Aramis pressed.

She started to nod, only to stop and squint in pain. "Yes. What happened?"

"Someone blew up the church," d'Artagnan replied, voice threadbare with fraught emotion. "But you're okay."

"Father?" Constance asked with a jolt of alarm.

"I'm right here," Jean answered, leaning further into her field of vision.

She frowned. "You're bleeding."

"We all are to some small degree," Aramis said lightly. "Doctor Lemay is on his way and I'd have you lie still until he arrives." He straightened with a wince, the adrenaline beginning to fade and revealing the myriad of hurts his own body was littered with.

"I don' like this," Porthos said to Treville. "Athos would've been here by now if he'd heard what happened at the church."

Treville's brows knitted together in apparent agreement. "I'll send some men to look for him and some others to handle the scene at the church. You all should get cleaned up."

With that, he excused himself and went to give the men their orders.

"Jean," Aramis called. "Let me tend those cuts."

Bonacieux shook his head. "I'm fine."

"The captain is right; we all need to get cleaned up. If I do it now, Doctor Lemay won't have to do it later and can give his full attention to Constance."

Jean hesitated for another beat before relenting and moving to sit on another bed. His injuries were minor, but they needed to be cleaned so they didn't become infected. Aramis had just finished with him when Lemay arrived and then Jean was back at Constance's side, anxiously watching the doctor perform his examination.

Aramis moved to the other side of the room and grabbed some towels and water to wash up with. Porthos joined him, wiping the grime from their faces and hands. Their clothes would have to be dealt with later.

Lemay declared Constance would be fine with rest, though d'Artagnan still hovered at her side. The royal physician offered to check the rest of their hurts but they politely declined since they'd already been tended.

Cornet arrived some time later, his brow furrowing as he entered the infirmary. "I had hoped Athos was here by now," he said.

Aramis dropped a towel on the table and walked over. "He's not."

Cornet's frown deepened. "We haven't seen any sign of him. But we have some witness descriptions of some men fleeing the church. The captain's ordered us to focus our efforts on the search for them."

Aramis nodded in understanding and turned to Porthos. "I agree with you; something isn't right. We should look for Athos ourselves."

Porthos nodded staunchly.

"You should go with them," they heard Constance urge d'Artagnan.

The young Gascon looked reluctant but did pull himself away from his beloved to follow Aramis and Porthos out to the dragon pens. Rhaego and Vrita had been lounging in the sun, but they rose swiftly with obvious concern at the appearance of their riders. Rhaego nudged Aramis's dust-laden coat and sneezed. Aramis patted his snout.

"Athos is missing and we think something's happened to him," he explained. "I need your help to find him."

Rhaego straightened at the ready.

Aramis grimaced. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything of Athos's for his scent." It would take extra time to make a trip to Athos's apartments and break in to get something that belonged to the man. Aramis placed his hands on the sides of Rhaego's face, capturing his gaze. "But you know him, you know his scent. You just have to call up the memory of it."

Rhaego's eyes crinkled dubiously and he shook his head.

"Yes you can," Aramis insisted.

His dragon's expression pinched with uncertainty and worry, and Aramis knew Rhaego was afraid of letting him down.

"Remember yesterday when we were going through the exercises," Aramis prompted. "Halfway through Athos stopped for some wine. He always smells of wine."

Rhaego dipped his head, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply as he struggled to recall it.

Aramis looked over his shoulder at Porthos and d'Artagnan. "Get the saddles."

Rhaego made a grumbling noise in his throat.

"I'm not rushing you," Aramis assured him. "We just have to be ready. Take your time. You can do this."

He kept up a steady stream of prompting as Porthos and d'Artagnan got Vrita and Savron ready to go. They brought over Rhaego's saddle last, and Aramis continued to encourage him softly as he slipped the saddle over his back and cinched the strap. By the time they were ready, Rhaego still looked reluctant.

Savron walked over and turned his side to the younger dragon, cocking his head at the saddle.

"Good idea," Aramis said. "Rhaego, keep that memory of Athos's scent in mind and distinguish a trace of it on the saddle to solidify it. Ignore Savron's scent," he coached.

Rhaego sniffed down the saddle, paused, and sniffed again.

"Got it?" Aramis asked.

Rhaego grimaced.

"Hey," Aramis caught the dragon's chin. "I believe in you."

Rhaego made a gurgling noise of discontent but finally nodded. Aramis swung up into the saddle and attached his anchor line. Then Rhaego leaped into the air with a thwack of his wings. Porthos and d'Artagnan on Vrita and Savron followed suit.

"We should start at the tavern," Porthos suggested. "It's the one place we know Athos was at recently."

Aramis nodded and veered Rhaego over the city toward Athos's favorite establishment. The dragon flew low over the buildings, which sent people below scattering in startled fright. There was a wide street outside the tavern with enough space to land. Rhaego hovered briefly to give people time to clear the way, then set down. He immediately bent his nose to the ground and began to sniff. Aramis waited, tense in the saddle. Porthos and d'Artagnan remained airborne.

Rhaego snapped his head up, pupils contracting a fraction as he caught the scent. He launched back into the air, half flying, half hopping over rooftops as he tracked it. He landed in a square only a block away and pointed his head toward the mouth of the joining alleyway. Aramis scanned it intently for some visible sign of what his dragon had sensed. He spotted a hat on the ground, wedged under the wheel of a standing cart.

Aramis unclipped his line and slid from the saddle just as the others landed. He bent down and snatched the hat up. "It's Athos's."

"I knew somethin' happened," Porthos growled.

"Do you think he was mugged?" d'Artagnan asked. "Or could this be related to the bomb at the church?"

"Hopefully Cornet will find the suspects and get those answers," Aramis replied. And hopefully they found Athos.

Rhaego meandered over to the wagon and bent his nose to the ground to sniff it out. Suddenly he reared back with a shriek, thrashing his head back and forth and pawing at his nose wildly.

"Rhageo!" Aramis exclaimed in alarm, dropping Athos's hat and throwing his hands out in a helpless effort to calm his dragon.

Rhaego backed up into the edge of a building and curled in on himself on the ground, rubbing desperately at his snout. His eyes swelled with water that streamed down his face and he whimpered as though in pain. Aramis finally was able to get close enough, though he had no idea what had happened.

"There's some kind of red powder here," d'Artagnan called urgently.

Aramis glanced back at the ground surrounding where Athos's hat had been. Sure enough, he saw faint red flecks dispersed through the dirt and berated himself for missing it. He turned back to Rhaego and cradled the dragon's head. "Easy, easy, you'll be all right." He hoped.

Porthos knelt and dabbed two fingers in the silt. He rubbed them together, sifting out the dirt, and then lifted it to his nose. He gave it a quick taste with the tip of his tongue before spitting it out. "Cayenne pepper."

Aramis's brows rose sharply. "What?" No wonder Rhaego was in agony with his overly sharp senses after inhaling that.

D'Artagnan turned in a half circle as he surveyed the abandoned stretch of road between the alley and the square. He checked the crates in the back of the wagon. "Weird that so much would have been spilled," he remarked aloud. "I don't see any stores here."

Aramis stroked his hand down Rhaego's forehead, trying to soothe him. But each sniff the dragon couldn't help but make only made his eyes water more and he whined again.

"Maybe someone knew about Rhaego's trackin' skills," Porthos said, arms crossed with a grim look on his face. "Knew we'd come lookin'."

Aramis's stomach dropped at the thought. Someone knew they'd come looking for Athos with Rhaego and wanted to throw them off. He looked back at Rhaego, the poor dragon rubbing his nose in the dirt in a futile attempt to dispel the offending spice.

D'Artagnan's lost tone echoed what they were all thinking: "How are we going to find Athos now?"


	3. Chapter 3

Athos woke again to a sharp pounding in his head that throbbed in symphony with the dull pulsing from his hangover. He had hoped to be dead by now, but apparently his suffering wasn't complete yet. He could feel the cold stone floor beneath his legs where they lay, slightly bent at the knees, still unable to move but burning from the knife cuts. His back was against the cold wall where he had apparently been moved and his arms were hanging out to the sides of his head. Ropes around his wrists secured them to some bolts in the wall. Trying to wriggle free of the bonds would only shred his wrists down to the muscle, not that freeing himself would do any good anyway.

Anne sat at the table, just watching him, half her profile in shadow and the other half aglow from the candlelight.

"You work for the Cardinal?" Athos said hoarsely.

She gave him a bland look. "Does it matter?"

He supposed it didn't. Still, being trapped in a dark cellar gave one time to reflect.

"The scorpion," he said next. "Aramis. That was you?"

"The box was meant for you," she replied.

Athos closed his eyes against a swell of grief. He had almost lost his brother because of Anne's quest for vengeance against him.

"But all good things come to those who wait," she went on. "And I find I prefer this close up view of your suffering."

"Then just get on with it," he snapped. This toying with him was grating on his nerves more than the pain of actual torture. Why didn't she just end it? If his brothers were dead like she claimed, there was no reason for him to keep living. He'd barely survived such loss once; he wouldn't be able to again.

Anne rose gracefully and stalked over, bending down and caressing a hand down his face. His heart clenched with the ghost of memory from another life. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Athos's mind froze for a split moment in surprise, but then he let her continue the kiss, muscle memory betraying him as it remembered the sensual touch of her embrace.

He indulged it for a moment longer before finally turning his head away.

Anne's eyes were like granite. She drew her knife from up her sleeve and pressed the point into Athos's shoulder. He gritted his teeth, then sucked in a sharp breath as she began to torque the blade, screwing it deeper into his flesh.

It took everything Athos had not to scream.

.o.0.o.

It took a lot of coaxing to get Rhaego off the ground and back to the garrison. The flight had been tense, with Porthos watching worriedly as the dragon dipped and lurched with Aramis on his back, but they made it back in one piece. Aramis immediately took his dragon back to his den while Porthos and d'Artagnan headed for the infirmary.

Constance was lying in bed with a few pillows to prop her up. Doctor Lemay had gone.

"Did you find him?" Constance asked when she saw them.

"No," d'Artagnan said regretfully as he went to her side. "How are you feeling?"

"I'll be fine." Her expression pinched. "What do you think happened to Athos?"

D'Artagnan hesitated and flicked a glance at Porthos. "We found signs he may have been grabbed."

Constance looked distressed.

"Jean," Porthos spoke up. "Someone left cayenne at the scene to throw off the scent. Rhaego got a nose full and isn't doin' so well."

Bonacieux's eyes widened. "What?"

Constance made to get up but d'Artagnan quickly stopped her.

"Whoa, what are you doing?"

"Rhaego needs help. His nostrils are probably inflamed, or burned. He must be miserable."

"I'll take care of him," Jean assured her, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder before heading out.

"Aramis took 'im to his den," Porthos added as Bonacieux left.

D'Artagnan helped Constance get settled again, and Porthos lingered, at a loss as to what to do next. Frustration made him fidget where he stood. They knew someone had been targeting Athos, but they'd gotten slack in their guard after nothing had happened for a while. And now someone had made a move against his brother and he didn't know who or why. Porthos clenched his fists and finally turned to go outside.

The garrison was mostly empty; every man was out searching for the perpetrators behind the church bombing. Maybe Porthos should have gone with them. At least then he'd be doing _something_. The two events had to be connected, right? It couldn't have been a coincidence…

"Porthos!"

He turned to see Cornet striding through the gate.

"We've arrested one of the men we believe was responsible for blowing up the church," the older musketeer informed him. "He's on his way to the Chatelet for interrogation."

Porthos straightened. "He say anythin'?"

"Not yet. The captain's on his way there to question him. I thought you'd want to be present."

Porthos gave a clipped nod. Hell yes he did.

The door to the infirmary opened and d'Artagnan stepped out. "Where are you going?"

"The Chatelet. They have a suspect in custody."

D'Artagnan closed the door and quickly fell into step beside him.

"You can stay with Constance," Porthos said. "We all understand."

D'Artagnan quirked a rueful smile at him. "Constance insisted I not. She said it's bad enough she can't do anything to help." His mouth turned down. "She told me to find Athos."

Porthos nodded.

The three musketeers made their way through Paris to the Chatelet. Treville was already there with the prisoner in one of the cells, the man seated in a chair in the middle of the room with two guards at his back. Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Cornet slipped inside silently, receiving a mere glance from their captain before Treville returned his attention to the prisoner.

"Why did you blow up the church this morning?"

The man didn't respond, just leaned back in the chair with a casual air.

"You are facing execution for the attempted murder of King's Musketeers."

The man's brows furrowed a fraction at that.

"Yeah," Porthos spoke up. "You failed."

The prisoner slid his gaze over, eyeing him for a moment in surprise. "Well…then if no one died, the charges ain't as severe."

"The King does not take kindly to attacks on his personal guard," Treville said. "You will be executed. The only question now is a matter of whether it will be quick."

The prisoner narrowed his eyes. When he still didn't speak, Porthos cracked his knuckles and stepped closer. The move earned him a slight flinch.

"I don' like people tryin' to kill me, not unless it's to my face."

The man leaned further back in his chair. "It wasn't personal," he said. "You were just a means to an end."

"What end is that?" Treville asked.

The prisoner clamped his mouth closed again.

"Was Athos the target all along?" Porthos pressed.

"I don't know Athos."

"He's a musketeer who's missing," d'Artagnan put in impatiently.

"Can't help you with that."

"Give me ten minutes wit' him, Capt'in," Porthos growled.

Treville's mouth was set in a tight line as he considered the situation.

"Let's just give this guy to Savron," d'Artagnan huffed.

Porthos's hard expression cracked into a grin. "Now that's a good idea. It's his rider who's missin'. Not to mention that stunt with the cayenne pepper hurt his den mate. The silverback is bound to be mighty upset."

The prisoner's brows knitted together. "Silverback?"

"You didn't realize you tried to blow up a bunch of dragon riders?" Porthos went on.

The man started to shift uneasily. "Like I said, no one died…"

"But yer still guilty. An' Athos is still missin'. So if you got nothin' left to say, I say we give the dragon somethin' to play wit'." He arched a brow at the captain, who didn't say anything.

"You wouldn't," the prisoner blurted. "By law I deserve a trial."

"The last accomplice this villain in the shadows worked with was slain in prison before his trial," Treville said.

D'Artagnan threw a covert glance at Porthos, who kept his expression schooled. They couldn't know that for sure, but if this _was_ the same person who'd targeted Athos before by framing him for murder, then this guy here was a loose end that probably wouldn't see the sunrise tomorrow.

Treville paused meaningfully. "So if you are expecting this person to perhaps release you, I don't think you'll appreciate their version of freedom."

The man looked to be considering it. After a few moments, he rolled his shoulder uncomfortably. "I was hired by a woman, but I don't know her name."

Porthos perked up at that and exchanged a piqued look with the others. It was a woman who had delivered that box with the scorpion. But was she the mastermind or just the messenger?

"Where can we find this woman?" Treville asked.

"A house on the edge of the river."

"Who else is there?"

The man scowled in apparent frustration. "She hired four of us. If the other three haven't been caught or run off scared, they're probably there."

"And the missing musketeer?" d'Artagnan spoke up.

"He's there," the prisoner grumbled.

That was enough for Porthos.

"Get a troop together," Treville told Cornet, then turned back to the prisoner. "Directions."

Porthos left the cell and followed Cornet back to the garrison to get Aramis. He found the marksman at the dens, fighting to hold Rhaego's head still on the ground as Jean attempted to flush out his nostrils.

"He gonna be all right?" Porthos asked.

"Yes," Jean replied. "Though he won't be smelling or tasting for a couple of days."

Aramis looked up at the sound of musketeers scrambling to assemble. "What's happening?"

"We have a location on Athos an' the person behind the explosion at the church."

Aramis glanced down at his dragon with a torn expression, but before he had to make any decision, Constance made her way over.

"I'll help. You go," she said.

"Should you be up?" Jean asked doubtfully.

"I'll rest when Rhaego is taken care of and Athos is back," she replied staunchly.

Aramis shot her a grateful look and stood up. Jean handed his daughter the water and took Aramis's place wrestling with Rhaego as he thrashed his head. The dragon could be a little shit sometimes, but Porthos truly felt bad for his suffering.

Aramis retrieved his weapons, and by the time the troop of fourteen musketeers was ready, Treville and d'Artagnan had returned from the Chatelet. The captain chose Savron, Vrita, Kilgar, and one more dragon to accompany them and guard the perimeter when they arrived at the house to make sure none of the culprits got away. Then they set off, the dragons taking wing to follow from above.

The musketeers approached the house with stealth. There didn't appear to be any guards on the outside. When the dragons were in position, the musketeers moved forward to make entry. As soon as they stormed inside they were met with resistance from three men. The suspects shot first, musket balls striking the wall and shattering plaster, but once those rounds were through, the musketeers broke upon them like a wave, quickly subduing them.

Porthos grabbed one by the front of his shirt and shook him. "Where's the musketeer?"

"Ce-cellar," the man stammered.

Porthos flung him to the ground and whirled to find the stairs.

"Here!" d'Artagnan called.

Porthos and Aramis converged on his location at an open door that descended to the level below. The passage was dark, but a flicker of orange illuminated the bottom.

"Secure the rest of the house," Treville ordered the other men as the three charged downstairs.

The cellar was mostly empty, save for a table and two chairs. And Athos, tied to some bolts in the wall. Red stained the entire front of his shirt in criss-crossing streaks. His head was slumped forward, chin to his chest, eyes closed. Porthos's heart dropped into his stomach.

Aramis immediately rushed forward, closely followed by d'Artagnan. Porthos was about to join them when he heard the grinding of stone in the back. He snapped his gaze around the dimly lit room, almost not seeing anything, but then his eyes caught a protruding lip in the wall and he strode toward it. There was a passage extending into a tunnel out of the cellar. Porthos shouldered the slab door open in time to see a flicker of torchlight sweep around a bend. Without further thought, he launched into the tunnel to give chase.

Shadows nipped at his heels as he kept pace with the receding halo of light. He couldn't make out much of his quarry, shrouded in a full cloak as they were. But then the tunnel came out into the open daylight along the edge of the wall above the river.

"Stop!" Porthos bellowed, drawing his pistol and pointing it at their back.

It didn't look like they were going to listen, but then Savron and Vrita landed, blocking any path of escape. The figure stumbled to an abrupt halt, then turned back to Porthos. Under the hooded cloak, he caught sight of feminine features, the expression looking trapped but determined. Her cloak rippled and he saw the barrel of a pistol glint between the folds. Stiffening, Porthos squeezed his own trigger.

Two shots cracked the air and fire seared across his bicep. The woman reeled backwards, knocking into the wall and flipping over the edge. Porthos darted forward. He heard the splash before he reached the wall and looked over into the Seine. The dark waters undulated like liquid metal, revealing nothing.

Savron and Vrita joined him, arching their necks overhead and gazing out at the river.

Porthos leaned back, mouth set in a grim line. There wouldn't be anything to find. With a nod to the dragons, he turned to go back to the others.


	4. Chapter 4

Aramis dropped to his knees beside Athos and yanked a glove off so he could check for a pulse. He sucked in a sharp breath when he found one; his brother was alive. But Aramis was sickened by his condition.

He drew his dagger and cut the rope that held Athos's left wrist suspended against the wall, lowering the limp arm to the ground before doing the same to the other. A brief glance showed the skin was completely abraded, and removing the ropes would be painful, but that wasn't his main concern at the moment. Aramis tapped Athos's face, trying to rouse him. He was rewarded with a low groan and slight lolling of his head, but Athos didn't fully rouse.

"Aramis…" D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and horrified.

"We'll need a litter," Aramis said. He glanced over his shoulder toward the tunnel Porthos had pursued the culprit down. Hopefully it wouldn't lead too far outside the perimeter for the dragons to provide backup.

D'Artagnan jumped to his feet and hastened back up the stairs to get help. Aramis turned his attention back to Athos, cataloging the myriad of wounds that'd been inflicted on him. They needed to get him back to the garrison.

Aramis picked up a lax wrist and began to work the coarse rope off, trying not to grate against the raw flesh further.

Athos moaned, his eyelids fluttering sluggishly.

"Athos, can you hear me?"

Clouded eyes slitted open to stare at him. "She said you were dead," he rasped.

"She tried, but musketeers don't die easily," Aramis replied. "Are any bones broken? Any hurts I can't see?"

"No," Athos mumbled. "But…"

"What?"

"She…poisoned me with something," Athos gritted out. "I can't move my legs."

Aramis's eyes widened in alarm and he turned to grip Athos's knee, eliciting a stifled grunt. "Sorry," he apologized when he realized there was a cut there too. "You can feel your legs?"

"Yes." Athos tried to shift but just ended up slumping. "I just can't move them. They're tingling now though. They weren't before."

Aramis filed that away; Lemay would have to be consulted on this, as Aramis wasn't an expert on poisons. "We're getting you out of here," he said instead.

Athos turned his bleary gaze toward his, earnestness shining through the misery and pain. "I thought you were dead," he whispered.

Aramis tried to find a place he could give a reassuring squeeze without causing harm. He settled for resting his hand on the back of Athos's neck. "We're all still here."

Athos nodded and closed his eyes as sounds from the stairs preceded the return of d'Artagnan with Treville and some others with a stretcher. Athos couldn't suppress a wince as they transferred him onto it.

Just when Aramis was beginning to worry about Porthos, the larger musketeer returned.

"The woman behind this is dead," he reported.

Treville just nodded. "I'll send Cornet to retrieve the body."

"No need. I shot her an' she went into the river."

Aramis was glad, but he saw Athos's expression twist with an odd assortment of grief. Kneeling beside the stretcher, he placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "Who was she?"

Athos swallowed hard. "My wife."

They all exchanged bewildered looks at that. Athos had only recently revealed to them that his wife had been a murderer and executed for her crimes…how could she have been behind this?

Treville, who probably didn't know the story, looked like he wanted answers, but Athos was in dire need of a physician, so the captain gave the order to get Athos up and return to the garrison. He sent someone to run ahead and fetch Lemay to meet them there. Porthos and d'Artagnan took up the handles of the stretcher, leaving Aramis free to walk alongside it and monitor Athos's condition. It was a long walk to the garrison, and Athos kept his face averted as much as he could through the journey. Aramis couldn't imagine what was going through his mind.

Lemay was already there when they arrived and ushered them into the infirmary where they transferred Athos to one of the beds. Then Aramis helped the doctor tend to the various knife cuts on Athos's chest and legs. A few had beginning signs of infection, but the slashes weren't particularly deep, which made cleaning them out easy. Several required stitches, though there was a ragged hole in his shoulder that was too mangled for that. There was also a small puncture wound on his lower back where the paralyzing agent had been administered.

Lemay examined the area closely, mouth pursed in a considering moue. "The effects should wear off once the swelling around the nerve tissues here has come down."

"Then it's not permanent?" Athos asked stiffly.

"I don't believe so. How's the tingling in your legs?"

"Bothersome."

"Let me know if the sensation changes." Lemay straightened and moved away to mix up some medicines.

Aramis lingered. The procedure of having each of the wounds cleaned and stitched had obviously left Athos exhausted, and they hadn't even broached the mental wounds he may have received having been tortured by his _wife_. Now wasn't the time though. Athos had closed his eyes and turned his head away, and Aramis decided to grant him the privacy he wanted.

He walked over to the other side of the room where Porthos and d'Artagnan were watching worriedly.

"Will he be all right?" d'Artagnan asked in a low voice.

"He'll live," Aramis replied, because that was all he could really say with surety. He narrowed his gaze on a patch of blood on Porthos's sleeve. "Take your coat off."

Porthos glanced at his arm, then started to shrug out of his coat. "It's jus' a graze."

"She shot at you?" Aramis asked quietly.

Porthos nodded wordlessly. "I had no choice."

"Of course you didn't," d'Artagnan exclaimed, momentarily forgetting to keep his voice down.

Porthos shook his head as he pulled his shirt off. "Still…" His gaze drifted over to Athos.

"He'll understand," Aramis said as he wet a cloth and began to clean the graze.

They didn't say anything else as Aramis applied some salve and bandaged the arm.

Treville came in just as Porthos was getting dressed again.

"I'd like some answers," he began. "But I can understand how delicate this matter is. So I'll leave it to you to fill in the blanks. Just keep me informed."

The three of them nodded, though they wouldn't be getting those answers tonight.

Aramis excused himself to go check on Rhaego and found Constance sitting on the ground in his pen, the dragon's head resting in her lap as she stroked his forehead.

"How is he?" Aramis asked.

"We washed out his nose as much as we could," she replied. "Unfortunately, any salve would just irritate it more. He hasn't been up to eating. Won't imagine his taste buds will be right for a few days."

Aramis sank down on the opposite side and laid a hand on his dragon's neck. Rhaego blinked up at him dolefully.

"How's Athos?" Constance asked next.

"Physically, he's a mess but will recover. Mentally though?" Aramis sighed. "I'm not sure. The woman who tortured him was his wife."

Constance gaped at him in stupefaction.

"How are you feeling?" he changed the subject.

"I have a headache," she admitted. "I told Father I'd meet him at home, but I couldn't bring myself to leave Rhaego like this."

"We both appreciate that," Aramis said with warm sincerity. "But you should go home and rest now."

Constance nodded and gently lifted Rhaego's head from her lap. The dragon swung his head toward Aramis and nuzzled his face into the marksman's hip.

"Stop by the infirmary and have d'Artagnan take you home," Aramis added. "Otherwise he won't get some sleep either."

Constance shared a conspiratorial half smile with him and left. Aramis knew he should seek out his own bed at some point too, but he didn't bother moving. Not until a little while later when Savron poked his head into the den, having been unsaddled and released from duty. Aramis smiled as the older dragon settled in to keep Rhaego company throughout the night. He gave his dragon a fond pat and then finally went to get some much-needed rest himself.

.o.0.o.

Athos woke yet again to grogginess and pain. For a split second, he thought he was in that cellar awaiting more torment.

"Easy," someone soothed.

He prized his eyelids open to Aramis's blurry face. Just as it solidified, Aramis moved away, returning a moment later with a cup. A hand slid behind Athos's head and lifted it, the rim of the cup pressing to his lips. The bitter taste of herbs splashed across his tongue and almost made him spit it back out.

"It's for the pain," Aramis said as if reading his mind. "I'll give you some wine to chase it down."

The bribe was unfair but Athos complied, forcing himself to swallow the tonic. When he was done, the cup was removed, and then another replaced it, followed by the sweet taste of wine. Aramis only let him have a few sips of it though.

"How are your legs?"

Athos shifted his gaze downward and tried to move the heavy lumps under the blankets. They jerked slightly, but the effort felt weak.

"Good," Aramis said brightly.

Athos squinted as he tried to discern whether it was false or genuine cheer. He caught sight of Porthos and d'Artagnan over Aramis's shoulder, watching anxiously. Though his vision was still slightly hazy, Athos could make out some bruises and cuts on their faces. He looked back at Aramis and noticed the same, and they weren't quite the kind received in a fight.

"She said you were dead," he said hoarsely. "She had reason to believe it was true." He watched his friends exchange a silent look at the question phrased as a statement. "What happened?" Athos pressed, pushing himself upright.

Aramis chastised him under his breath, even as he reached out to help Athos sit back against the pillows. "She did try to kill us," he admitted. "Sent her men to blow up the church where…" He trailed off with a grimace.

It took Athos an extra moment to understand what he'd left off. "The wedding." He snapped a horrified look at d'Artagnan. "Constance?"

"She's fine," d'Artagnan quickly assured him. "We all got a little banged up, but we're all alive."

Athos closed his eyes under a swell of renewed grief. To think he had, even if only slightly, begrudged d'Artagnan's and Constance's wedding, and now because of his wife—because of him—they had almost been killed.

"We would've found you sooner," Porthos picked up. "Rhaego tracked you, but I guess yer…um, the person behind this knew about his trackin' skills an' left some cayenne pepper to wreck his sense of smell."

Athos's eyes shot open at that and he stared in astonishment. Anne had been more conniving than he had ever given her credit for. "Aramis…" he started, knowing no apology would ever be enough.

Aramis looked uncomfortable as he glanced at the others before looking back at Athos. "You mentioned your wife did this…" he began hesitantly. "But you told us she was dead."

Athos closed his eyes again. Of course they deserved an explanation, but it had been hard enough to bare his soul that night in Pinon; to highlight his shame again, in full detail…

"I thought she was dead," he said, voice rough. "The magistrate had taken her away to be hanged, but apparently fate intervened. She said the Cardinal took pity on her."

"The Cardinal?" Aramis repeated in disbelief.

Athos nodded, his throat constricting. "She's been working for him."

There was silence for a moment, and Athos didn't bother opening his eyes to see just what expressions were in his brothers' eyes.

"It matters little now," Aramis finally said.

Porthos cleared his throat. "Athos, I'm sorry. I didn't know who she was when I shot her."

"She shot at you too," Aramis said under his breath.

Athos finally looked at them again. In truth, he didn't know how he felt. He'd lived with the grief of her death hanging over him for so many years, and now it was fresh because she'd died a second time.

But she wasn't innocent. She was a murderer. She'd tried to kill his brothers, his family. Again.

"Can you forgive me?" Porthos asked softly.

Athos swallowed around the spiky lump in his throat. "There's nothing to forgive. Rather I should be asking you for forgiveness. My wife caused you so much pain and grief on my account."

"It wasn't your fault," d'Artagnan insisted. "You can't blame yourself for her actions."

"You didn't know," Aramis added.

Athos clenched his jaw and didn't say anything. He could tell they were in earnest, but he wasn't sure he believed it to be true. His soul had carried the burden of his brother's death, of Anne's, but now it felt even more crushing with the knowledge of what had been wrought all these years later.

.o.0.o.

A week after the events at the church, d'Artagnan tracked down Athos at a tavern. The man's wounds were healing and he'd regained the use of his legs—thank God. But he'd been using that mobility to avoid everyone. The rest of them had agreed to give him space in the beginning, let him come to terms with what happened. But he'd completely ignored the missive d'Artagnan had sent him two days ago, and so he decided it was time for a face-to-face confrontation.

As predicted, Athos was seated in the back of the tavern, nursing an entire bottle of wine, though it was early afternoon. D'Artagnan strode across the room and slid into the chair across from him.

"I'm getting married in a couple of hours," he said without preamble. "And you still haven't said you're coming."

"I don't think you want me there," Athos replied dourly.

"I doubt someone's going to blow up the church again."

Athos shot him an unamused glare. "You should hate me for what Anne did. She nearly killed Constance."

D'Artagnan huffed out an impatient sigh. "We've been over this; that wasn't your doing. Constance doesn't hate you and neither do I."

"I hate myself," he muttered. "For what I made her."

"You didn't make her into anything," d'Artagnan said. "She made her choices."

Athos opened his mouth, probably to protest some more, but d'Artagnan cut him off.

"Shut up and come stand at my side as I get married."

Athos arched a brow at him.

"Bring that wine if you want," d'Artagnan went on. "It's a celebration, after all."

He waited, gaze staunch as he dared Athos to defy him in this. As the seconds ticked by, his heart clenched with the fear that his brother truly would turn him away.

But then Athos picked up the cork and stuck it back in the bottle. "Very well."

D'Artagnan grinned and rose from his seat. Slinging his arm over Athos's shoulder, the two of them walked out of the tavern together. With their brotherhood intact and his bride waiting for him, d'Artagnan felt ready to face anything the world threw at them next.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm calling this the end of season 1 of this verse. Next up, season 2. XD
> 
> NEXT TIME
> 
> The musketeers are sent to deal with a wild dragon attacking villages, but they find something more sinister at work—something that puts their own dragons at risk.


End file.
